Wrestling For Beginners
by St-Jimmy1669
Summary: LXG/Monty Python/ Sherlock Holmes x-over. Stranded in a modern world, at the mercy of the Liver Harvesters of '83, can Holmes, with the police, stop this evil gang before it's too late?


When the first object hit him in the back of the head, Holmes decided to ignore it: the people around here were probably odder

When the first object hit him in the back of the head, Holmes decided to ignore it: the people around here were probably odder than he had first thought. However, when a second object followed a short while later, he turned around, irritated.

"Would you kindly desist?"

The massive bulk of the superintendent loomed over him.

"Mr Holmes, _if_ you can spare some of your valuable time, we need you back in the station."

"Murder?" Despite himself, the Super smiled.

"Oh, yes."

Though Holmes was not inconsiderable himself, he was positively drawfed by the huge man as he followed him back into the building. As expected, the rest of the officers were sitting at their desks and looking bored. There was music coming from somewhere, too, though Holmes searched in an for the horn of a gramophone.

"Right: men, women, and those exempt from classification, we have a murder."

Holmes took his seat as the Super continued to talk. "Brutal, even by our standards: there's still a search out on the liver." The speech had the desired effect: the room fell silent as the officers digested this information.

"But," He grinned, rubbing his hands briskly, "we know exactly who the perpetrators are!" Amid the general murmurings of confusion, a gopher scurried in with an evidence bag.

"Thank you, Lucas. Now, does anybody recognise these?" With that, he held up the two small objects.

Holmes was the first to speak.

"What is this; a joke? A toothbrush and a… a model duck?"

"As astute as ever, Mr Holmes. Glad to see the temporal shift hasn't altered your mind one bit." Holmes sank back, abashed – it was a contentious point, but he had only found his way into this strange era a matter of months ago. The instructions that Mr Hartdegen had left had been particularly unhelpful, as it turned out. Still, at least this place was better than where he'd first turned up – now, that had been strange indeed. A clearing in the middle of a forest, full of medieval knights surrounded by people who seemed to be operating large cameras. Holmes had appeared in the middle of it in his machine, and most of them had stumbled back, tripping over themselves in their haste to get away. A shrill voice had rung out:

"What is _that_?" And with that, the knights had fallen to the floor as one, shrieking in apparent agony and convulsing.

Holmes had made good his escape, and had come across this town after what he judged to be a couple of miles – though it was like no town he was used to – all glittering buildings that scraped at the very clouds, and smelly, noisy machines that looked as though they may have been a distant cousin of the automobile. Eventually, he had noticed the familiar Metropolitan logo, and had gratefully stumbled in to offer his services. After a rigorous certification procedure, where his identity was correctly established, he was enthusiastically welcomed onto the team.

But he was still having trouble fitting in: he supposed that may have been down to his compulsion to continue to wear his old clothes and behave in his usual manner; very few people doffed their hats nowadays, he found, which made him feel relatively conspicuous, though he was damned if he was going to abandon all semblance of common decency.

The Superintendent was once again addressing the rest of the group.

"As Mr Holmes said, we have a toothbrush and a rubber duck." The rest of the team stared at him blankly. "Oh, come on! Not one of you sees a connection here?" more blank looks. "Seriously? Holmes, you must have _something _to contribute."

"I still have little knowledge of the area's criminal proceedings."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" The Super strode to the boards at the end of the room and started scribbling almost incomprehensibly. "You must remember the dreadful troubles – started a couple of years back. Rogue organ transplant teams steal livers and leave the victims – who happen to be in possession of a donor card – for dead? Man climbs out of fried and takes some woman out into space to sing at herm where she promptly explodes in the vacuum? Whole hordes of suicidal trees?" Someone piped up from the back.

"Didn't we attribute that to some renegade group? Unattainable? Possibly French?" The Super sighed.

"Yes, but don't you see? What about that mediaeval re-enactor who had his arms and legs viciously severed and the knights who were killed for their want of a shrubbery?" Holmes knows all about that." Holmes feigned polite bafflement. "Fine. I didn't want it to get to this stage, but here we go…" The Super put a small rectangular piece of plastic into a holder that bore the label 'cassette player' and pressed a switch. Almost immediately, music coursed through the air. "The Spam Song… no? Well, I'll forward-wind… Aha! Knights of the Round Table!"

There was a collective intake of breath from the group. Somebody whispered,

"No…"

"Yes" The Super nodded grimly. A piercing scream emanated from somewhere to Holmes' left.

"Oh God, oh God, we're all gonna die!" Holmes turned just in time to see a whirl of uniform smash through the window. Being the closest, he jumped to his feet and peered out just as a resounding crack echoed from the street, eighty feet below. He drew back in horror.

"Dead?" The Super asked, sombrely. Holmes could only nod. There was a moment of silence as the now-depleted team reflected on this.

"Oh, well; roadsweeper'll be along any minute. Now, I think you've all realised the implications of this case, but for the benefit of Mr Holmes, who clearly hasn't: this group plays dirty. They're underhand, deviant… we've been on their tails forever, and they definitely have something to do with the Great Liver Harvest of '83. For this murder, some of the authorities have been trying to pin the blame on some kind of a monster, owing to the 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh' inscription found next to the victim. But this band of serpents have a history of leaving bizarre calling cards, and they are famous – indeed, notorious – for the inclusion of… wait for it… toothbrushes and rubber ducks."

"Do we have any leads on where they're due to pop up next?"

"Well, we're not certain, but we did get a tip-off this morning. You know the one: pranks us all the time. 'Mother was a hamster and father smelt of elderberries?' Well, it was him, but since we have nothing else to go on, we're off to the castle."

Nobody took the hint.

"Now."

"Oh!" There was a general shuffling as everybody began to move. The Super continued to shout over the din.

"We need at least eight squad cars – this group is dangerous." He turned to Holmes. "You're coming with me: it's time you found out a little more about the criminal fraternity."

Holmes was almost lost in the mêlée, but found the Super and was forced into the front seat of one of these strange little vehicles. Despite having been in them several times, he treated them with extreme caution still, and in the absence of an abundance of the Hansoms which were his preferred means of transport, he generally insisted on cycling everywhere.

As they got out onto the road, messages crackled through on the radio in quick succession. They were in some kind of a code, and Holmes turned his attentions to deciphering them until the Super slammed on the brakes and grabbed his mouthpiece.

"_What _did you say?" The message came through again, in plain English, this time.

"Message repeat: approach with caution. Targets are outside the castle, but there seems to be some sort of documentary-filming in progress."

"Oh, brilliant." The Super thumped the steering wheel. "_Just _what we needed." He pressed the 'transmit' button'. "OK, advance when ready. We can take them: enlist the bloody camera operatives if you have to."

From somewhere ahead came the distant sounds of shouting and sirens. The Super depressed the accelerator further, and they were on the scene within minutes. Chaos reigned: the documentary crew had evidently taken flight, leaving the cameras running. Everywhere, men dressed as knights were pressed against the sides and bonnets of cars, being frisked and handcuffed and shoved into the back seats of the waiting squad cars. The Super turned to Holmes.

"I think we've finally caught out the wily Pythons. You, my friend, have a lot to learn about the workings of the modern criminal mind."


End file.
